


pull out your heart

by theankletattoo



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Louis, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Porn with Feelings, Post-War, Soldier Harry Styles, Strangers to Lovers, Top Harry, references to war and the aftermath, the sex isn't very explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28878063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theankletattoo/pseuds/theankletattoo
Summary: He wants to apologise, the five letters sit on the tip of his tongue but he does not. It means nothing to either of them.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 74





	pull out your heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soldouthaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soldouthaz/gifts).



> sarah, you held my hand and talked me through so much. you make me feel like i belong everyday here. thank you so much for being my safe space and my friend. 
> 
> additional thanks to ris for looking over half this mess. the other half is un-beta'd, all mistakes are my own.

Grey smoke swarms in his vision, the green of the soldier’s irises resemble polished emeralds, precious and shiny, set in their sockets of ivory white, thin red muscles darting across, implying the lack of sleep and giving reason to his lead filled limbs.

“I’m Harry,” he says, dragging out the vowels, licking his rosy lips which are glossy with the petroleum jelly Louis had offered, brows scrunching as his fingers loosely grip the base of the bowl — fingertips scraping the rough bottom, the circle of fragile China not smoothened, scratching just enough to cure an itch.

Louis does not know if he will drink the lukewarm soup but he still fills it halfway and drops a spoon in it. 

“Drink it, it’ll keep you warm,” he insists, even though he knows the chances of him trusting his word and food are slim but he’s spent last three years of his life clinging to stray strands of hope, clenching his palms around golden air, so hard and so tight that his rouge knuckles rose to the surface, pressing against the once warm skin, giving away how frail he truly is. 

Louis will be damned if he gives up now.

Harry traces his bottom lip along the rim of it, searching for a spot to rest it, inhale the warmth and aroma of spices. His lip settles right over a blueberry. A hand painted blueberry on the pale yellow bowl. 

Yellow like melting butter and early sunrise. Not yellow like the teeth of men returning from war and thorns of lemon he’s pricked his feet on a hundred times in the past years. 

The spoon he lifts is not part of the set. It’s a dark brown and has a smooth end. A mismatched little thing.

His slowly sips at it, the tightness hanging around his shoulders slips away, rids him of some weight. 

“It’s a pretty colour,” he softly murmurs, spooning another mouthful of cold soup, eyelids shut, lashes casting shadows on the pale skin under his sunken eyes.

Louis twists around to see what he is referring to. Harry raises the spoon, a bead runs down, he sucks it off his thumb.

The brown of it resembles the skies. At least what the skies were until a week ago. Napalm filled, death clinging to the clouds like tender children, worn down and heavy with horrors.

He wants to apologise, the five letters sit on the tip of his tongue but he does not. It means nothing to either of them. 

Instead he agrees. “I know. ‘S why I kept it even if it looks a tad odd.” To erase the pity lingering in his tone he smiles, corners of his pink mouth turning upwards, a glint of white teeth and pink gums.

The smoke clears a little and Louis unfolds his bent legs to light another incense stick.

Snow pale moonlight casts its rays through the slants of his windows but they are two people bearing bruises all over their bodies, flimsily covered by cloth and grime, yet far too naked to see each other without the barrier of mist clouding their vision.

The incense is now nothing but a pile of ash. 

Harry is removing his boots, they are mud caked and rubber and drop to the wooden floors with heavy thuds, a pitiful sound resembling weak gunshots. 

This is a scene he’s seen before but he doesn’t know the ending. Same yet it couldn’t be more different if tried.

Not the ones he’s heard from the war, the ones he remembers from the few games he had gone to. 

“Men looked the same by the end of it,” Harry mumbles, chin jut out, pointing at the floor where the ash is.

Louis dips a finger in it, mutely question if he were referring to that.

He nods in confirmation. “We burnt bodies of other men. In the end they were nothing but a man-shaped pile of crimson blood and ruined boots and still hot ashes.”

It’s sad, the way he sees death both as something insignificant and inexplicably large. In the grand scheme of things it is nothing more than erasure of a human shaped form crushed to the earth, mixing with what he is made of. In the grand scheme of personal life, it — death — carries grief and sorrow, a ghost hovering small, miscellaneous things.

Louis has no pity in him to offer Harry. He only holds broken shards of once glimmering hope and traces of faith in his blue green veins.

“I think there is some bread in the back, a little hard but if you soak it in the soup it might be edible,” he speaks to the orange flame of the matchstick, touching it to the tip of the incense, inhaling a lungful of sweet fragrance. 

“You never told me your name,” Harry observes, not accusatory, a tad curious.

Louis shrugs, rising from his crouch, ignoring the creak of his knees. “What would you do learning it?”

“Pray,” he sincerely utters, green eyes twinkling as though all the stars in the night sky were sprinkled in them.

A sharp heat travels to his belly, like he’s swallowed too much brandy. “To me or for me?” 

Harry’s laugh is soft and precious. Pearls tumble out of him, stuck to the staccato of chuckles. “I haven’t been praying since the war. Knowing your name would do nothin’ to change that.”

“Why?”

The smog is back, it swims around their bodies, creating halos for men who are far from angels. 

Pearly white teeth reveal themselves in a grin. A dimple carves its home in his cheeks. “You don’t get much time to spend talking to the walls. Too many rifles, it was either empty stomachs or empty words.”

When he was six and had a soft tummy from eating bread and cheese and drinking warm milk everyday, his mother had told him that nothing tastes more bitter than melancholy. He did not understand what the word meant or why anything but tonics would be bitter.

The bitterness that spreads across his palate, stuck to his teeth feels an awful lot like it. Melancholy.

His laughter is rueful. It’s funny how one day you are oblivious to words and their meanings and the next day you are bearing the weight of them in your heart.

Except, it’s not as funny as it is heartbreaking.

Their footsteps are hollow when they pad out into the front. 

No flies buzz over the empty bowl. Louis pushes him down to sit and refills it, forcing himself not to think about the solid muscle he had gripped, the body he bears under the shirt.

“I will get some bread. Stay here,” he instructs, turning on his toes and stepping into the corners — he always stored it in the coldest of places to preserve food, avoid it perishing — hissing a breath through his chattering teeth as the cold nips around his ankles.

The bread isn’t stale but it’s not the freshest either. He unwraps the brown paper and searches for a knife to slice it.

All his knives are blunt with handles bigger than they need to be. The slices are uneven but Harry doesn’t comment about it.

He tears it into morsels and drops them into the liquid, wisps of steam curling up, leaving his cheeks tinted red.

A healthy red.

“Thank you.” 

Louis feels heat rise to his cheeks. A familiar tiredness is tugging at him, the chill getting to him, rattling his bones. “You’re welcome. It’s the least I could do.”

“You could’ve shut the door on my face and left me to freeze to death and starve,” Harry says in a matter of fact tone.

Honestly, he is not at fault. There are instances when Louis’ had to do that. Shut his doors and keep himself safe from the blood covered uniforms and armed with rifles and bombs on their selves.

For a split second he is tempted to hate Harry for reminding him of it but he cannot. He cannot blame someone else for the memories he associates with places. 

“You must’ve prayed on a lucky star,” he deflects, not really denying it. Both of them are aware of the truth. 

Pretending won’t do any good.

Louis doesn’t sit, he potters around, straightening the mats hanging over the windows, covering the slits and plunging them into another blue light hour.

Vaguely he can make out the tense form of Harry.

“I’m going to light a candle. Don’t move,” Louis firmly says, one finger outstretched.

He quickly curls it back into a fist. The gesture was foolish.

Without mulling over it for much longer, he rummages around the familiar cabinet for little stubs of wax and the copper holder. 

His fingers hurt as he strikes the match and one side of his face is illuminated.

Harry is sitting still, just the way he had when Louis rushed into his sleeping quarters.

The wax is hot and a drop of it spills on his wrist and he rushes to set it down on the nearest flat surface which happens to be the table where the soldier is sitting, clutching his bowl of food to his chest, looking oddly vulnerable.

He also looks young in the candlelight.

Without the incense smoke, Louis can map out his features. Plush, red lips, bright green eyes, skin that looks flawless from a distance and unruly hair that resembles melted chocolate.

Swallowing the saliva pooling under his tongue, Louis takes a seat opposite to him and tries to look unaffected. 

He is endangering himself by letting his inhibitions go unchecked. There lies a thin line between blind trust and benefit of doubt and Louis had them blurred — he never was good with the lines, always wonky, a little too bent, swaying with the wind like wild dandelions.

“I want to know your name,” Harry repeats again, this time the words different but the intention still the same.

Shadows at different hours of day don’t alter the man they are casted from.

Louis’ eyes shut on their own. “Louis,” he breathes, the taste of his name nostalgic, his heart aching.

“Louis,” he echoes, the ee a soft hiss, almost an afterthought, his tongue spitting out the Lou and rushing to bridge the gap between the two vowels, it only becoming more with his diction being clearer than Louis’ own.

Tears prickle the corners of his ocean blues. Hearing his name on someone else’s lips after years of solitude feels like an insistent hand tracing the cracks on his heart, reminding him of his existence, showing him how human he is despite everything that occurs outside the four walls he calls his shelter.

“That’s my name,” he lamely adds, picking at the dried wax, digging his thumb nail into it, creating his very own waxy, crescent moon.

There is no ring of spices on the bottom of the bowl, just stained white stares back at him. 

Harry heaves his elbows onto the table and leans forward, unevenly cropped strands of hair falling over his forehead. “How can I repay your kindness, Louis?”

_Call me my name. Remind me of who I am in this shell. Keep reminding me till I can remember it on my own._

No words come to Louis, he gapes at his hopefully young face and tucks his chin into his chest, feeling his stubble scratch the ratty cotton.

“You don’t have to pay me back. You stumbled across my place at a good time, Harry.”

It feels strangely intimate to address each other by their first names. And by strange, he means normal. It brings forth an album of memories he’s carefully hidden in a nook of his brain, bearing sounds of people he’s loved and lost.

To have another man’s name on his lips wakes a desire in him. Louis’ spent a good chunk of his time fantasising about change and the partner change will bring along with it for him.

A man who will kiss him in daylight and cradle his jaw, thumb over his cheek and hold him close. Fit his awkward limbs and plump parts without complaint.

It gives Louis another thread of hope.

“Can you sing?” The question slips out of him before he can catch it.

There was a myth about a man eating the sun to shine bright as the burning mass. The glow emanating from Harry reminds him of that story.

“Yes, I can.”

“Can you —” he cuts himself off with a cough. “— can you sing Seven Years?” He shyly requests, folding on himself, leaves of a disturbed mimosa.

Harry’s hand is outstretched, fingers bearing clunky silver at the base, war worn knuckles faded but still not enough to let them — to let anyone forget about it.

The song he requests is odd. Especially to a stranger who may or may not understand that the story is woven in the melody and not the words. Worst of worst, he wouldn’t even know the words to it.

“That’s — that’s not a normal song,” Harry says after a pause.

Louis blinks, slow and careful, watching the twitch of his jaw, the soft swell of his Adam’s apple, the barely discernible limp of his wrist.

“I’m not normal,” he softly whispers, sharing the most vulnerable part of him, a secret wrapped in white rose petals and ivory silk, pure and dirty all in the same heartbeat.

Harry braves a step forward and Louis closes his eyes, expecting a blow, a punch to his jaw, a kick to his stomach and a little blood in his urine.

What comes instead is a calloused hand landing on his shoulder, heat seeping through his thin top, setting his nerve ends on fire and for a split second he thinks, he thinks this is what a rebirth must feel like. 

Not ten minutes ago was he yearning for another person’s touch and now here they stood, not meeting gazes, air thickening with tightly strung tension, their bodies gravitating closer.

_Seven years of hiding my one_

_seven lives of us being in love_

_seven years in sinner’s heaven_

_seven lives spent together uneven_

The words wash over him in a sugary sweet wave. It’s not the voice that makes him snap open his eyes but the underlying pain the song carries.

Louis stares at the curve of his mouth as he sings. Harry doesn’t loosen his grip either.

“Men from wars don’t sing it that way,” he says, head bowed down, his asymmetric fringe falling over his forehead.

“No, they don’t,” he agrees, probably smiling, a little too bitter to be bittersweet. “Boys who hide in tobacco fields do.”

Louis wraps his fingers around the width of Harry’s wrist.

Every cell in him protests the movement but he can’t contain himself, cannot allow the pricks of hesitation to ripen into bleeding gashes of shame.

The fact of his pulse under his fingers is thrilling, Louis’ traitorous heart speeds up, trying to match the thump. 

“Louis,” he murmurs, loosening his grip and icy panic grips his veins.

Louis hastily lets his fingers fall, the phantom shape of his carpals, the weight of it, crushing his concaved ribs.

“Sorry,” the apology is empty, it holds no meaning. He knows that. He said that earlier, fuck, he wasn’t supposed to let that word out. 

_Sorry, sorry, sorry._

“Louis,” he says again, firmer this time and his cowardice is blinding him.

_Sorry, sorry, sorry._

“No.”

“What?”

Harry cocks his head to the side, orange light from the candle’s flame licks the length of his bared neck and he becomes the embodiment of comfort and warmth.

“You don’t need to be sorry. It’s okay,” he states, yielding yet firm.

“Is it really?” He fires back, years of conditioning denying him the sweet relief present in Harry’s words.

His sexuality has always been something he’s been ashamed of. It is a wound that is not a wound, it is made into a wound with simpering smiles, scornful glances strewn his way, strangers spitting on his shoes, his father declaring he is heirless, sire to a dead son, his mother hiding her face in her embroidered handkerchiefs, flinching at his touch, and the boys — the _boys_ coming up to grope him behind groves, trying to destroy him so they don’t see their true forms reflecting on Louis’ body.

His face bruised red with shame, shame and more shame.

These are what he is used to.

Harry’s palm cups his face, a rough finger tracing the hinge of his jaw, the thin skin under it, stretched over the sharp planes of his face.

“Yes,” he answers, so sure of it, his touch still _there_.

If he were braver Louis would push him off and keep fighting about his wrong morals. If only. It’s a good thing he wasn’t. 

“How are you so sure?” It is barely audible but in his head, he’s screaming so loud that his vocal cords are ripping themselves.

Harry takes his hand and lays it on his shoulder and all Louis can focus on is the heat running through them, the solid presence of the man he is touching. 

“Does this feel wrong?” he quizzes, eyes now darker, the black of his pupil drowning out the green.

Louis watches his tongue swipe at his bottom lip and he is on fire again. He wants to lick the spit off the other man’s lips.

“No, it doesn’t.” The _but it should, it’s supposed to feel so_ are quietened even in his head, the rush of his blood roaring, desire slowly spreading its lustful tendrils to every corner of him, senses both dull and heightened, his touch, _his touch._

_His touch, his hands, his mouth, his eyes, his touch, his hands, his mouth, his eyes._

“I’ve never felt right.” He wants to take it back the instant they leave him. 

Harry is a stranger, a kind one but it doesn’t change the facts. Doesn’t make it any easier for Louis to bare himself.

“Then let me make it feel right,” he proposes. The wording is too much and too less. 

The flame flickers, threatening to die on them and drown them in darkness. “What makes you safe?”

“Nothing. I am no one to deem myself trustworthy, Louis, but you gave me your name and you’re offering me your touch. You tell me what makes me safe,” he retorts, question thrown back at him, the one he’s been silencing in his brain.

“I don’t know,” Louis lies when he knows.

 _Boys who hide in tobacco fields do._ Boys who hide in tobacco fields aren’t boys. They are fear filled creatures watching themselves in grimy mirrors and fogged surfaces, trying to see what it is that fills them with fear. 

The answer is always the same. Other boys do. Boys who will push them around, try to be gentle and harsh in the same pull, try to break their ribs but also kiss their mouth trying to patch them up. 

“Okay. Can I kiss you?” It comes out as a request and Louis barks out a laugh.

Harry’s yet to break him but he is already patching him up.

“Yes,” he acquiesces, tilting his chin up, meeting his stare, hoping to find something other than shame or fear.

There’s courage and want in the moss green of them.

Harry’s mouth meets his, colours explode in his vision. 

Their eyes close and if Louis were to open his eyes, he would see their shadows merging, reds and blues mixing into a purple, anger and agony giving way to arousal.

His lips are smooth and bitter from the jelly. It should not make him yearn for more but it does.

“I want everything you’re willing to give,” he mumbles against his kissed mouth, their saliva glossy on their lips, breath fanning over his cheek.

“Take me then. Take all of me,” he desperately whines, hands roaming his body, spanning the width of his chest, the material rough and worn.

“Baby.”

Louis gasps, his breath stuttering. The endearment makes him flush pink as tulips, cheeks brightening, bearing a berry blush, all of him delicate and fragile just from being called baby. 

“Baby, where is your bed?” 

Louis musters enough strength to vaguely point at the direction of his bed. He feels heady, a veil is thrown over his consciousness. 

Harry wraps an arm around his waist and digs his fingers into the curve, leading them to his room.

The room is sparsely decorated but it is still warm and cosy. Louis had spent days sewing flowers on the bedsheets, pricking his finger and almost poking himself in the eye with the needle.

A tub of petroleum jelly is pushed into a far corner, hidden by stained rags and torn sheets. 

Harry pushes him, urging Louis to sit down. When he does, he kneels and slowly tugs down his trousers, heavy lidded eyes drinking in the inches of honey sweet skin hidden by the clothes.

“So beautiful,” he says, awed, pressing a kiss to the satin soft skin under his knee, thumbs rubbing circles along the soles of his cold feet, each touch more reverent than the last.

For Louis, the praise catches him off guard. 

He is used to the bulky men wearing their dirtied uniform like a second skin, a flag stitched on their biceps, knocking at his door and asking him for more but also not asking him, their meaty fingers lingering on his forearm, their boots and clothes and bags falling to the ground — loud like gunshots, the only music he heard from them were gunshots — him tumbling down the bed, on his knees, touching but not the way he wants to, but still touching nonetheless. 

He is not used to beautiful boys — men — touching him with adoration, stars in their eyes and something akin to love in their touches.

“Can I?” He motions at the lubricant and all Louis can do is fervently nod.

Their clothes fall to the ground, quiet not loud.

Harry kneels between his spread legs and rubs his inner thighs, his calves, his tummy. Louis’ hips buck up into his palm when it comes in contact with his hard member.

“I bet you’ll taste the sweetest here,” he hums, tapping cold fingers against the pucker of his rim.

Tears bead the corner of his eyes, cling to his lashes like pearls. He is overwhelmed in the best way possible. 

“Dunno, no one ever,” he grunts, the rest of his sentence lost as one long digit breaches his hole.

Harry twists his finger and tilts his head to the side, a furrow tugging at his brows, appearing to be deep in thought. “That’s a shame.”

There is no gap for Louis to come up with a reply, not with Harry adding another finger, the cold silver rubbing against his sensitive muscle. 

“Is it?” The question comes out more whimpering than the snark he initially aimed for.

“Yes, Louis.” His accent gets thicker around the vowels of his name. It reminds him of home.

Harry maps his body with his mouth, planting love bites on his skin, kissing and biting and kissing and caring and kissing. He tastes like his soup and warmth and safety.

They kiss and kiss until Louis forgets he is a man and it is a man who is on top of him. Until the weight pinning him down morphs into a shape of a lover.

_Here is the shape of a lover, repeatedly building you up and crashing you down. Here you are, being rewritten, being reborn, soaking in the glow of your sins._

Louis slicks him up, feels the thickness, the veins that run along and rubs the pad of his thumb over the pink head, bringing it up to his mouth to taste him where animal and man blend into one. 

The stretch burns him, breathy groans are punched out of him, Louis’ high whines and Harry’s low grunts creating the purest of songs, one laced with pain, desire, longing and vulnerability.

It is divine, the way their moans are melting into each other’s mouths, Harry’s length sliding in and out of him at a punishing speed which feels more like a reward just like the finger shaped marks on his hips.

The red and purple splayed across his body are all stamps of their time together.

“Does this feel wrong?” Harry gripes, fitting his hands around his cheeks, teeth nipping at his neck, just hard enough to leave him speechless.

“Baby.” He pushes deeper, demanding a reply.

“No!” Louis cries, fat teardrops sliding down his cheeks.

And for the first time in forever, he means it.

Louis wants to take this moment and throw it in the face of his mother and ask her if she’s ever experienced something like this.

_What if the body, at its best, is only a longing for body?_

Harry spills into him, Louis gasps. He feels full, the body he wears is his wholly, he is not longing for it anymore.

And it took a dozen gritty soldiers and one strange man — Harry — for him to accept himself.

Harry rolls off him and takes him into his mouth, wet, tight heat envelopes him and he comes with a muffled cry.

They lie side by side, arms and legs touching, lazily licking into each other’s mouths, corners bitter and salty. Harry’s seed leaks out of his hole, he clenches to keep it in and a sharp ache travels up his spine.

“Will you — if I heat some water, will you bathe with me?” Louis requests, demure and gently open, bracing himself for rejection.

Harry rearranges himself so he is propped up by his elbows, sweat soaked hair falling into his star speckled eyes, his gaze tender. “If it is not a bother. I am content to stay here, like this.”

“I will heat the water, you will fill the basin and we will talk.” His tone books no space for rebuttal.

Despite Louis taking up the heating duty, Harry follows him around, silent as a mouse, his shadow looming over the wood. He watches their distorted reflection in the water.

“This was a bad idea,” he grumbles under his breath as more of Harry’s come drips down his legs.

“Should’ve cleaned you with my tongue. Want to taste you again, like a secret, like a sin.” 

Louis bites back a squeak and a smile and focuses on putting out the fire.

Later as they wet rags and as he allows the other man to clean him, warm cotton dragging across his sticky limbs, his waist and the swell of his arse, light shines over another thought.

His nose burns and the grinding of his teeth hurts his jaw. 

“Are you doing this out of pity?” Louis spits out, the words vile on his tongue leaving a foul aftertaste.

Harry pours more lukewarm water over his thighs. “Why would I fuck you out of pity?”

He has to close his eyes. A shadow of a lover, the lover taking shape of Harry, Harry cleaning him up like a lover, his lashes casting spider webs of shadows, his veins spanning across his pale skin like lightning, purple from lighting smudged under his eyes, his eyes, his beautiful eyes flecked with gold, his heart of gold.

“Not the _fucking_. The aftercare. You taking a bath with me, cleaning me, being so delicate like I’m a thing you ruined.”

He is not a thing but he is ruined. Is he any better than a thing if ruined?

Harry’s forehead is dewy and hot where it rests on his knee. He drops a kiss on his scarred kneecap. “First of all, you my dear, are not a thing. You are a person. Secondly, I did ruin you and I want to do this. Just let me take care of you.”

Louis lets him. 

When the rag is replaced with exploring hands, Louis flips so he can lay on his back and watch a smile of guilty pleasure spread across Harry’s face.

“Couldn’t contain myself,” he offers as an explanation.

He sits up and bends to trace the dark scar running along the length of his ribs. “Can I wash you too?” 

_A ghost, a lover, and a man sit in a closed room. The ghost evaporates._

“You can.”

Louis slides off the bed and spreads his soiled shirt under his bum. He dips the flannel and wets it. 

Their silence and even breathing keeps them company. Louis rubs away the dried white on his lower belly, a little of it in the patch of dark hair at the base of his cock, the darkened flesh he wears as a badge, he is the proof of the world’s cruelty.

“It could’ve been worse,” Harry dryly says, a chuckle falling from his lips, throat bobbing.

He nods to show he is listening. Harry has his attention.

“So much worse. I could be without a limb or fuck, I could be dead and no one would’ve cared.”

“A part of me would’ve died along with you then,” he wearily sighs, hands trembling, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. “It doesn’t make your pain any less worthy. Doesn’t make your wounds disappear, H. It’s okay.”

“The same goes for you, Louis. We are not wrong. You are not wrong for wanting someone to take care of you. You do what you need to in order to stay alive in this fucked up mess.”

“Please, just stay. Don’t leave me, I can’t breathe,” he begs, wringing the flannel, water dripping down his forearms.

Harry swipes at the wetness and presses his feverish lips against his, mouth no longer bitter.

His mother had warned him to not make home out of a place but make it a person. She had scoffed when he brought that up after she found him in the fields with his hand down another boy’s pants.

_Boys like you don’t get that._

Harry smiles into their kiss, teeth clacking and Louis thinks, boys like him get their home too.

Even if it comes in the form of another broken boy.

**Author's Note:**

> [tweet](https://twitter.com/theankletattoo/status/1351947624253779968?s=19) [fic post](https://hadestyles.tumblr.com/post/640853557485125632/pull-out-your-heart-by-theankletattoo)


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